I’d made good time, too. Excellent time. I’d calculated that if I maintained a steady seventy-five miles per hour and stopped only once for gas and a bathroom break, I could make it to Las Vegas by 2:30 PM. Fifteen minutes to spare.
I’d been on schedule. On pace. Everything was going according to my revised plan.
And then I’d seen the flashing lights in my rearview mirror.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the state trooper had asked, leaning against my window with the casual authority of someone who’d asked this question ten thousand times.
“No, officer, I don’t.” And I’d meant it. I’d been going exactly seventy-five miles per hour. The speed limit was seventy-five miles per hour. I’d checked. Multiple times.
“You were going eighty-two in a seventy-five.”
“That’s impossible. My cruise control was set to seventy-five.”
“Cruise control can drift, sir. Especially on downhill grades.”
“I was monitoring my speed. I’m always monitoring my speed.”
He’d given me a look that suggested he’d heard this before, too. “License and registration, please.”
Three hundred dollars.
Three hundred dollars for a speeding violation I didn’t commit, on a day when everything had already gone catastrophically wrong, while racing to make a presentation I never wanted to give in the first place.
By the time he’d handed back my license, I’d lost forty-five minutes.
I’d driven the rest of the way in a state of barely controlled fury, recalculating my arrival time every five minutes and watching my buffer evaporate like water in the desert.
I’d pulled up to the Venetian at 2:45 PM.
Fifteen minutes.
I’d abandoned the rental car with the valet, practically throwing the keys at him, and that was when I’d collided with her.
The woman who apparently thought Las Vegas was some kind of spiritual theme park. Who’d grabbed my arm to “steady me” when I was the one who’d been standing still. Who’d tried to apologize while simultaneously explaining that she’d been distracted by “the lights” and “an Elvis” and “the energy.”
I’d looked at her, really looked at her for half a second and seen exactly what I’d expected: flowing skirt, oversized bag probably full of crystals or tarot cards or whatever, wide eyes that suggested she’d never had a coherent thought in her life.
“You should watch where you’re going,” I’d said, because someone needed to tell her.
She’d started babbling something about energy and intensity, and I’d realized with perfect clarity that I didn’t have time for this conversation.
“I don’t have time for this,” I’d muttered, and walked away.
Now, standing at the front desk with eleven minutes to spare, I was regretting not walking away faster.
“I’m checking in,” I told the desk clerk, sliding my ID across the counter. “Julien Darcy. I have a reservation.”
She typed something into her computer. Frowned. Typed something else.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Darcy, but your check-in time was 1:00 PM. We released your room at 2:00 PM because of our no-show policy.”
I felt something inside me crack. Just a little. Just enough.
“I called,” I said, very carefully. “I called from the road and explained that I’d been delayed. I spoke to someone named Marcus, who assured me the room would be held.”
“Let me check with my manager.”
“I don’t have time for you to check with your manager. I have a presentation in”—I glanced at my watch—“nine minutes. I need to leave my bag here and go. Now.”
